


the lilting dance of binary stars

by findingkairos



Series: to you I gift the end of things [7]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: A little bit anyway, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, Platonic Relationships, Protective Technoblade (Dream SMP), Reincarnation, Technoblade Needs a Hug (Dream SMP), Technoblade-centric (Dream SMP), Winged Philza Minecraft (Dream SMP), aetwt, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:13:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29142783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/findingkairos/pseuds/findingkairos
Summary: He’d known, on some level, that what they have isn’t exactly normal.Normal people don’t catch their breath at the sight of their best friend, heart leaping into their throat with some half-forgotten grief. Normal people don’t find themselves wracking their brain trying to remember, while their best friend continues, happy and oblivious and most importantly (why most importantly? but,)alive.Normal people don’t open the door to the fifteen-year-old version of the best friend they’d fought in wars with, now young and skinny and shivering in the cold, and think:Oh. This explains a lot.They’d been cursed to fight forever. But there are loopholes in every curse, and this is theirs: it had never specified to fightagainsteach other.(Technoblade opens the door to the fifteen-year-old version of his best friend who doesn’t remember anything, and has to make a choice.)
Relationships: Technoblade (Dream SMP) & Philza Minecraft (Dream SMP)
Series: to you I gift the end of things [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104326
Comments: 48
Kudos: 484





	the lilting dance of binary stars

**Author's Note:**

> ( _I’m trying to get back to my heart_ — when I said take me to the moon I never meant take me alone)
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day. Have a platonic fic. <3

He’d known, on some level, that what they have isn’t exactly normal.

Normal people don’t catch their breath at the sight of their best friend, heart leaping into their throat with some half-forgotten grief. Normal people don’t find themselves wracking their brain trying to remember, while their best friend continues, happy and oblivious and most importantly (why most importantly? but,) _alive_.

Normal people don’t open the door to the fifteen-year-old version of the best friend they’d fought in wars with, now young and skinny and shivering in the cold, and think: _Oh. This explains a lot._

* * *

His reputation goes _Technoblade never dies_ , and it’s a true one. It’s even a genuine one. But he never dies because he and Philza had been fifteen and smart and skilled, far more skilled after waking up in the cold with minimal context clues than regular bedspawning. He’d earned that reputation a hundred times over, across a thousand battlefields on a planet that had been crafted solely to be conquered.

Philza’s had been similar, too. Angel of Death, wielder of the blade called Justice, even if that Captain Sparklez had shook his head with a wry grin at the irony. But that is then, and this is now, and a fifteen-year-old “Philza, but call me Phil” sits at Techno’s kitchen table, eating rabbit stew like he’s been on starvation rations for the last week.

At least he’s not hunched over his bowl again. Techno remembers those days, and it’s meager comfort when his tiny kitchen and small spread of bread and butter and honey and stew is considered less in danger of being taken away than the soup kitchen they’d used to eat at as kids, but it’s one he’s not too proud to take.

“I know you,” Phil says between mouthfuls. “Your name is—Technoblade, right?”

Phil hasn’t called him by his full name outside of formal functions in years. “You can call me Techno,” he says through a lungful of air that feels like it’s been filled with glass.

Phil—the kid pauses, hand half-raised, spoon full. He sets it down, careful not to spill a drop. “You’d let me call you by a nickname?”

“Always.”

Something shifts in Phil’s face. Techno would have known what it’d meant, once; he would have been able to read every muscle movement, every sideways glance. He still can to a degree, but it’s one thing to grow up with someone as together they forge an empire, where he’d learned to read Phil’s political opinions from the twitch of an eyebrow, and it’s another to read a younger Phil’s baby face.

And he is a baby. Fifteen and tiny. Gods, had they both been that small before?

“How do I know you?” Phil asks. He pulls his hands into his lap. He’s only eaten half of the bowl, and it must hurt him to do so, it’s plain in the way he keeps glancing between Techno and the bread and the stew.

Techno keeps his hands in his own lap, off the table, out of threatening range. “I don’t know,” he says, and it’s true. He has—suspicions. Inklings of an idea. But whenever he thinks too hard about it, the thoughts slip away from him like water through fingers.

There is something greater than the two of them involved, and the uncertainty pricks at him.

“Because,” Phil says, “I woke up in the snow, right? And I don’t remember—what happened before.”

And that, there, is a lie. Phil’s always had a nasty habit of freezing, just a little bit, just for a split second, when he’s about to tell a fib. He’d done it—Before—and he does it now.

Techno doesn’t call him out on it. Better not to call attention by giving it a name, and all that. Instead he prompts, “And then? After you woke up in the snow?”

“I picked a direction and started walking. It’s common sense to get out of the cold,” Phil adds, like it’s that obvious. Like it’s that simple. But there’s a blizzard howling outside the cabin walls, and it’s part of the empire’s children’s education that you hunker down in a blizzard and stay warm, conserve energy. The wind kills as quickly as the cold does.

Phil had gotten lucky. Very lucky. And if Techno’s uncertain suspicions hold any truth—then the Phil that he’s known for more than a decade had died out in that blizzard.

“Well, then.” Techno reaches out with one hand—slowly, carefully, steady movements even when Phil flinches back—to push the breadbasket closer to the kid. “Eat up. You’re far too skinny.”

“I’m not skinny,” Phil rebuts, immediately and familiarly indignant.

“The skinniest. An absolute twig.”

“Am not.”

“You are,” Techno says, and swallows down his tears.

* * *

Phil—the new Phil—settles into Techno’s home and routine with an ease that makes his heart hurt. He’s still early to rise and early to sleep, bounding up and down the ladder with an energy that makes Techno feel all of his bone-deep scars. He takes to the bees and the turtles with the same easy fascination and joy that he’d had just last week. He still wields a sword with the same fluid grace.

The only difference is: now he flies. The death—rebirth—there’s a pressure inside his skull and Techno deliberately reframes his thoughts—whatever happened out there in the blizzard had given him his wings, fresh and downy and _whole_. The burn scars and charred primaries are gone.

The tension behind his eyes presses outward, like a warning, before it dissipates. Techno sighs.

In the Before, as Techno has started to think of it, Phil would have ranged out and wandered and disappeared for days on end. It’d been part strategic and part just—Phil. A builder and warrior and introvert at heart, always eager to find the place where the sun sinks into the horizon.

But Phil sticks close to the cabin now, always returns before the sun sets, often with rabbit or sheep or some other meat for them to put on the fire for dinner.

“You don’t have to hunt,” Techno tells him, the night that Phil brings back a deer balanced on his shoulders. Where the kid had found the buck in the middle of the arctic where most of them have long since migrated to the southern parts of the continent, he doesn’t know. But it’s a clean kill, a shot straight through the eye, and Techno remembers: adult Phil always had been a good shot with the bow.

It’s good to see he hasn’t lost that, at least.

“I know,” baby Phil tells him, with the puffed-up cheeks and feathers of the self-righteous. Techno just barely keeps himself from messing up the already windswept hair. “But I wanted to.”

“It’s enough to keep us going for a few weeks. D’you wanna help me preserve it?”

Living solo in retirement is quiet and easy. Living with the child reincarnation of his best friend in retirement is not so quiet, not so easy, but Techno knows himself. There’s no way he could turn Phil out.

* * *

He has a nightmare that night. Or, well. Maybe calling it a nightmare is a little much. It’s just a minor inconvenience at best, a little terror at worst.

How have you survived this long? the chorus asks. They are one and they are many and they are whispering and shouting and singing and shrieking, anything and everything under the great good sun. How? How?

“Technoblade never dies,” he tells them, a little bemused and a lot bravado. “And really, what’s up with this—entire thing, anyway? Trying to make sure I don’t figure out what you’re doing? Bruh.”

A curse, a curse, the chorus sings. Forever to fight, forever to separate. There will be no peace for you.

“Screw that.” Techno is retired, and he is living the good life. Words are good but when that fails, a show of force is the only thing to get through thick skulls and fear-addled minds; but people are stubborn. Messy. Human. The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing and expecting a different outcome.

It’s a heady thing, being at peace. And he has baby Phil to take care of now.

There will be no peace for you, the chorus repeats. We will not allow it.

And then Techno wakes up.

* * *

He is not a superstitious person. It’s kind of hard to be, when ghasts are killable and the skeletons and zombies that wander the night are killable, the condition reversible in villagers. There are potions of healing and potions of harming and there are ways, even, of killing the ender dragon. As players, the universe cuts them a lot of slack.

But the chorus that Techno had heard in the void of his dream unsettles him, even through his waking hours. The feeling that he’s being watched doesn’t ever go away.

If Phil feels them, too, he doesn’t show it. He continues to take care of the turtles, helps bring in honey when the hives start to overflow. He smiles. He giggles, sometimes.

“I don’t remember why I was out in the middle of the blizzard,” Phil tells him one night they’re sitting out on the porch with mugs of cocoa and heated bricks in blankets warming their feet. “And I don’t know why I trust you. But I do.”

Phil speaks with the easy truth of the youthful. It still catches Techno somewhere in his ribs, twists in the vicinity of his heart.

“I’m glad,” he says, when he’s found his voice again. He takes a sip of cocoa. Breathes in the steam, in hopes that the warmth will startle his lungs into working again.

“Isn’t that weird, though?” Phil twists around in his seat. His feathers fluff up, wings shuffling and resettling, as he pulls up his feet and curls up. “That I feel like I’ve known you for—well, forever? Even though neither of us know why?”

Techno traces the vulnerable line of Phil’s spine with his eyes. It might be a good idea to light up the area around the cabin, as much as he hates to ruin their night vision. Just in case.

“If it’s weird,” Techno tells him, “then at least we’re weird together.”

* * *

Their days are quiet. Peaceful.

And then Phil calls out into the house from upstairs, “Hey, Techno? What’s this?”

He looks up from his book. Phil doesn’t sound like he’s nervous or in pain, just curious. He takes his time going up the ladder, wondering what’s up.

“What? Like, a book?” There’s only the bedrooms and the small nook where he’s put the enchanting table and the messy bookshelves, some boxes in the corner, hastily put together after—

After—

Ah.

Techno turns around slowly, as though that would make it any better. He spots baby Phil first, messy blond hair under the bucket hat he’s thankfully kept in this newest life, before he spots the red fabric in his hand.

He still recognizes the chrysanthemum crest embroidered on the cloak, even from the end of the hallway. That, and the flare of magic sunk into its threads that curl out, brushing tendrils against this stranger.

“That’s—that’s from a long time ago,” Techno says, as Phil tries on the cloak. The white sun of the Antarctic Empire settles between his shoulders. The only indication that it’s been made for adult Phil instead of this baby Phil is the fact that the end of the cloak pools at his feet. Phil really hadn’t grown any broader, had he? All light bones and raptor’s figure, never really growing tall.

“Gods, it smells like it.” Phil brings up an arm to sniff at the cloak, then sneezes. The cloak doesn’t try and take his nose off. “Wait, shit, is that magic?”

Techno leans back against the wall, rests his head on something solid. He closes his eyes. “Yeah. Strongest enchantments that diamonds could buy, warmth and Protection and Thorns.” And others too, after Techno had called in more than a few favors to have that made.

“Wow.” Phil turns in a circle, and the cloak barely swishes, it’s so long and heavy on him. He doesn’t seem to mind if the smile on his face is any indication.

He’s so different from the adult version of himself. There are echoes and shades but then there are moments like these, and Techno realizes: he is fifteen.

He is _only_ fifteen. And there is no way that Techno could ever give him up to another person to raise and guide, not even if that’s what would be best for him.

…well, he’s retired, isn’t he? He has all the time in the world, now.

“Why do you have this?” Phil asks. He’s twisting the cloak between his fingers now, tracing out the enchantment-embroidery. “The magic’s still fresh, it feels like. Forget why you have it, why is it up _here_?”

You should be using it, is the implication. You should be wearing it. Why let a good thing go unused?

“It belongs to an old friend,” Techno tells him. “Well. Belonged, now.”

Phil pauses. He peeks at Techno from behind his bangs.

“Keep it,” Techno adds, because he recognizes that look, and Phil really hasn’t changed at all, has he? They’re fifteen and street runners and forest brats again. “He would have wanted you to have it.”

But baby Phil asks, “Are you sure?” Adult him would have done that, but because it’s good manners, not because he’d ever doubted Techno’s generosity. Baby Phil asks and there’s still a hesitant look in his eye, the one that say he’s worried about stepping on toes.

There are no toes to step on now. “I’m sure,” Techno tells those bright blue eyes, and walks over to help him properly fasten his cloak.

* * *

When Phil is asleep, Techno slings his own cloak around his shoulders and ventures outside.

The snow blankets the earth. Phil’s footprints are being covered up even as Techno looks for them, and it’s only because he’s long familiar with Phil’s light-footed raptor hopping, graceful and predatory, that he’s able to spot the remains of it.

He follows it across the river, finds it winding towards a cliff. There is blood smeared on the stone wall, and a furrow that the snow is only just beginning to cover. There’s wood and flint shattered on the ground.

Phil would have taken the most useful things with him, when he’d woken up confused alone. The clothes hadn’t shrunk but he wouldn’t have realized that, not while being hungry. He’d come in from the cold with the sword, the axe, the pouch of potions and stack of golden apples.

There is no body here, nothing left to bury. Techno makes plans to erect a gravestone anyway.

* * *

Retirement is quiet. They are at peace. And distracted by a baby Phil who needs—well, not attention, exactly. Phil’s always been capable of taking care of himself. But one who needs looking after? Who likes to drag Techno out into the snow, hemmed-up cloak slung over his shoulders, the diamond sword Techno had reforged for him slung neatly at his hip, for them to go and find trouble?

He’s not exactly capable of curling up and mourning the person he’d known, like he wants to.

They find a fortress together. Phil charges ahead, certain in his own skill, and Techno straggles after. He’s fine. They’re fine. The wither skeletons are many and that’s the only really annoying thing about them.

“We’ve got so many,” Phil gushes. He’s trotting back to Techno with his arms full of skulls, his wings fluttering beneath the cloak. The reforged netherite armor fits him properly now, instead of hanging off his skinny frame like it had when he’d first arrived at Techno’s door. He’s not wearing a chestpiece, like he hadn’t back in the Empire—Before.

Adult Phil had been confident in his place and his power enough, towards the end, that he’d been able to ditch the cloak when it’d gotten warm enough. Techno had done the same, as a show of unity, as a means of matching the one who’d been—

There’s pressure at his temples, a weight sinking through his skull. He sheathes his sword, closes his eyes, takes a moment to breathe.

“Techno?”

This is not his Phil. He needs to remember that. Not just for himself and that angry burning pain, but because things are different now.

He opens his eyes. Phil’s standing in front of him, skulls neatly put away, empty hands now hovering in front of him. They’re half outstretched like he wants to touch Techno and half curled away like he’s afraid of being rejected. And the part of the body that Techno’s gotten used to watching as part of the holistic body language—

Baby Phil’s getting used to concealing them. Techno doesn’t know, yet, if that’s a good thing or not. There is no one else here, there is no one coming to bother them—he is retired—and yet. And yet.

The old paranoia is hard to shake.

But baby Phil is here, waiting for a response, and Techno drags in another slow breath until the pain seeps out. It takes a long moment, but it does. After, Techno clasps him on the shoulder.

“Good job,” he says. The words are foreign in his mouth. But it makes Phil light up, the torchlight glinting in his eye, and his smile grows.

Techno smiles back and tries to breathe.

* * *

Baby Phil is his own person. He delights in the small things and swings a sword with the fumbling grasp of someone whose mind somewhat knows but the body does not remember. It’s unfair to him to keep comparing him to the adult version of himself.

There is no hope of getting that version of his best friend back, anyway. He’s dead. He’s gone. Techno needs to let him go.

Like most things, it’s easier said than done. Having baby Phil close by helps at least. It’s hard to sulk when someone is dragging him out of bed every morning.

But sometimes Phil will say something, and it will be in the wrong pitch or the wrong phrasing or the wrong something, Techno doesn’t know, he doesn’t, he—

In those moments, there is only the fact that this is not Phil. This will never be Phil. It can be Phil again, one day, someday, but it will never be his Phil.

And that’s—okay. That’s fine. That’s how it’s meant to be.

There is a headache behind his eyes, but Techno has lived in pain before. It’s a small price to pay if it means he will remember what was Before, hold it as close to his heart as he will learn to hold the After.

* * *

You need to remember, someone tells him, voiceless and loud and shrieking and whispering.

This is a dream. He’s dreaming again.

You need to remember.

This is a _dream_ , and there is no point in listening.

Listen, listen, to the story.

This is a dream. There is no story.

Tell me about a complicated man, sings the chorus. Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost when he had wrecked the holy town of Troy, and where he went, and who he met, the pain he suffered in the storms at sea, and how he worked to save his life and bring his men back home.

The story of Odysseus. Wilson’s translation. Not as established as the others, published fairly recently, but rapidly gaining popularity.

He failed to keep them safe; poor fools, they ate the Sun God’s cattle, and the god kept them from home.

“They brought that upon themselves,” he says at last, and his own voice rings in his ears. “I tried to stop them, but they didn’t listen.”

Try again. Try again.

“There is nothing left to try.”

Try aga̷i̴n̸, the chorus insists. W̴e̷ ̵d̶e̴m̴a̴n̴d̶ ̸i̷t̴.̷

* * *

The cabin is in a remote part of the north. Techno could have gone further, sure, but that way lay memories of the empire and anyway, he hadn’t wanted it to be too far away for Phil to get to. There’s that good part about it, at least—the Phil, Before, had been able to find him and go between the cabin and the house he’d owned in L’Manberg pretty easily.

The Phil, After, had been able to walk through the blizzard to reach him. If he hadn’t been able to—

If he hadn’t—

Techno had gotten lucky. _Phil_ had gotten lucky. It might not be the case, next time.

There will be no next time, Techno decides. He’ll make sure of it.

In order to do that, though, he needs to know who the dangers are. There had to have been a reason that the Phil, Before, had died out there in the snow. He is—had been—an experienced warrior, had conquered and ruled an empire based in the Antarctic with Techno. He had known how to prepare for a blizzard and how to survive one.

Which can only mean that something else had been involved. Blood and flint and wood, and the skeletons that roam the night might carry bows and arrows, but they’re not the only ones in this land who do.

It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you, Techno had told Phil multiple times, and Phil had always waved him off and said, They wouldn’t. They’re trying to do better.

Techno picks up his sword and tests its weight, its heft. An oddly great number of people here like to use shields, and they like to think that those shields will save them from a swordsman. And it would, from any swordsman except for him.

He takes his weapons with him when he goes to track down baby Phil. The kid is going through the manuals on enchanting again, nose-deep in studying the magic of the armor and weaponry that Techno had practically shoved at him. It makes Techno smile, even as it hurts his heart; Techno would go to Phil for answers on enchantments, Before.

“Hey, what conflicts with Infinity again?” Phil asks him as he steps off the ladder, and Techno shakes his head.

“Mending.”

“Ohhhh right, yeah, okay.” Phil flips through his book again, double-checks with another at his elbow. The crossbow on the enchanting table doesn’t have the sheen of magic yet, but there’s three books that are shimmering with it. “So, Multishot and Quick Charge and Unbreaking, yeah? Or do I not need Unbreaking if I’m putting Mending on it, anyway?”

“You’ll want to have Unbreaking.” Techno thinks about the red festival, the silent bystander crowd, the shrieking chorus. “Mending will fix it, but you still don’t want it breaking on you in the middle of the fight.”

“Gotcha.” Baby Phil hums a little, as he lays the lapis on the enchanting table. The table hums back. “Ooh, that’s good, there we go.”

The lapis crumbles into dust that shimmers, then settles into the leather of the book. Phil swipes it off the table and stands up. “Alright, anvil time!”

Then he looks up, finally spotting Techno at the ladder. He pauses. “Techno?” he asks, and for the first time since Techno had shoved the cloak at this baby version of his dead best friend, he sounds uncertain.

Does he have to ask him today? Baby Phil had been smiling and excited, eager to enchant and eager to forge. Techno can always ask him later.

“Techno?” Phil asks again, and Techno shakes his head.

“C’mon.” Techno releases his grip on his sword, finger by finger, and turns away. “Let’s go enchant your crossbow. Are you gonna name it?”

* * *

There’s an old saying, one he’d learned while at sea: _Red sky at night, a sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning._

It’s primarily a sailor’s advice, but he’s found that it fits elsewhere, too. The day-night cycle in the arctic is different from those around the equator, and the lights in the sky are green and blue and purple, but the morning—

He might be imagining it. He might not be. Regardless, Techno has no intention of letting Phil go without every advantage possible.

They walk the snowy plains and Techno makes sure that Phil is actually using the cloak that his elder self had hidden away here. He digs up the old chrysanthemum brooch, uses it to clasp it closed.

Phil murmurs something. Techno lets it wash over his ears, breathes slowly, steps away.

Carl is a horse of the old bloodline, one that the Empire had especially bred and trained. He is a warhorse, but he knows Phil. Recognizes him still, somehow. He lets Phil pat at his nose without trying to bite off fingers, and only gives Techno a little bit of a baleful eye over the kid’s head.

“This one is full of trouble,” Techno says, and doesn’t really know who he’s talking to. Both, probably. Carl is clever enough to get himself into trouble, even though he’s got a sensible head on his horse shoulders for everything else, and baby Phil is—well, Phil.

“I’ll take care of him,” Phil says, as Carl snorts and tosses his head. Then they turn to look at each other, both eyes wide.

And Techno can’t help it—he chuckles, low and soft, and something eases in the vicinity of his ribs. Yeah. Phil gets it. Carl gets it.

“Want me to teach you how to ride?”

* * *

It is dark, and cold, and there is something else in the air. Static electricity before the storm. The immeasurable dread pooling in the gut at the thought of what is to come. Dropping temperatures and aching bones.

So with these vows, the chorus sings, I called upon the dead.

There’s pressure behind his eyes. He inhales.

I took the sheep and slit their throats above the pit. Black blood flowed out. The spirits came up out of Erebus and gathered round.

“You guys are being very cheerful today,” he says, and wonders why.

Teenagers, girls and boys, the old who suffered for many years, and fresh young brides whom labor destroyed in youth; and many men cut down in battle by bronze spears, still dressed in armor stained with their blood. From every side they crowded around the pit, with eerie cries.

Erebus, the place where souls go immediately after dying, purgatory, Tartarus, the moment before the judgement. Something has to animate the skeletons, and the hatred behind the wither needs to come from somewhere.

Pale fear took hold of me. I roused my men and told them to flay the sheep that I had killed, and burn them, and pray to Hades and Persephone.

“So you want me to _pray_ to you, is that it?” The chorus has quite the ego if that’s the case.

But no, they sing: Then came the spirit of my man Elpenor, who had not yet been buried in the earth. We left his body in the house of Circe without a funeral or burial.

And, that, that is—that’s a step too far. “There is _nothing_ of him to bury,” he snarls, and cuts his hand through the air. It does nothing but it makes him feel better, and he clutches onto that.

Forever to fight, forever to separate, the chorus says, abandoning the mythological metaphor. There will be no peace for you.

Is this a curse? Is this a warning? Or is this something in between, in the fashion of all the olden myths, where the gods and spirits thought they were being generous?

“Are you trying to warn me,” he asks, baring his teeth, “or provoke me?”

W̴h̶a̴t̶ ̷d̴o̴ ̴y̸o̶u̶ ̷t̴h̴i̴n̸k̶?̵

“I think I’m going to track you down and gut you open.”

You wanted a second chance, the chorus hums. You have your second chance. For the universe. For our entertainment. For your m̸i̸s̴s̴i̸n̸g̶ ̸h̵e̷a̸r̵t̴.̷

And there is only one who could ever claim the title. It makes sense. Of course he would have done it for Phil. And Phil, that idiot—of course he would follow suit.

“Is there any way to break it?”

There will be no peace for you, the shrieking voices say, like they could have said anything else.

So a permanent rest is out of the question. At least if there is anyone he is doomed to repeat this with, it is Phil. But Techno hasn’t made it this far without knowing how to prioritize.

“Will we ever remember?”

Chrysanthemums, they say, and then—pause.

There is a stillness to the air. The storm is about to break. But the chorus is not saying no. There is no dismissal—which means that there’s a chance.

Techno has already made his peace with the memory of his Phil. No matter what a chrysanthemum says, he has no hope left in him. But for baby Phil—for future him—

This is a very long second chance. And by all the stars and all the gods, he is going to take advantage of it.

* * *

They get a few more days of peace before it’s interrupted.

The first warning is when there are torches in the distance where there should be no light sources. Techno squints into the red sky. Carl nickers, uneasy beneath his hand.

“Phil,” he says, and by the kitchen table the kid perks up. “Did you sharpen your weapons last night?”

“Of course I did,” Phil huffs, with the righteous huff of the youthfully indignant. “What? Why?”

“Go get your sword and put on some armor. We’re about to have company.”

Techno watches through the windows as Phil runs up the ladder, wings fluttering. He’ll be back down in a few minutes, five, maybe a little more or less. The kid’s taken to wearing the cloak, and even hemmed up to a more appropriate length he’s still not as quick about gearing up as adult Phil had been.

It gives him an opportunity to review his own maps and traps. There are pitfalls and blind spots and choke points aplenty, if it comes to that. There are bunkers and safe houses for Phil and for Carl. Not because they can’t take care of themselves—the latter is a warhorse, trained to kill an armored man with a kick of his hooves, the former quickly brushing back up on his combat skills to where he had been Before—but because the chorus is singing.

F̴o̶r̷e̶v̷e̷r̶ ̷t̴o̶ ̴f̷i̵g̴h̵t̴,̶ and Techno dons his armor; f̶o̷r̵e̵v̴e̴r̷ ̶t̶o̶ ̴s̸e̶p̷a̸r̶a̵t̷e̶,̴ and he pulls on his own cloak, clasps it shut with a chrysanthemum pin.

T̷h̸e̴r̴e̷ ̷w̴i̷l̶l̸ ̸b̴e̶ ̸n̷o̴ ̵p̴e̴a̶c̶e̷ ̴f̶o̴r̷ ̵y̴o̶u̷.̴

“Is this your fault?” he asks, quiet beneath the sounds of Phil clattering about upstairs, pulling gear and weapons together. He strides over to the emergency chest in the meantime and runs his fingers over the quick-grab selection of potions. “Did you lead them here?”

G̷r̸a̵t̶e̷f̸u̶l̸ ̷t̵o̶ ̸b̶e̸ ̴a̴l̸i̷v̸e̵,̷ ̷t̸h̴e̸y̷ ̷c̷r̶a̵w̸l̶ ̸t̵o̷ ̸l̵a̴n̴d̷.̷

“So you would have me be _grateful_.” Techno doesn’t spit, if only because he is still in the house. He still ends up tightening his grip around his sword. “And for your _entertainment_ —‘Will you now make yet more war and bitter strife’?”

And then in one voice, they sing: A̷l̶l̵ ̸t̸h̸i̵n̷g̸s̵ ̶h̷a̶v̶e̴ ̸a̶ ̴p̶r̸i̴c̴e̶.̸

* * *

He has two Totems. He grabs them both, folds one into Phil’s hands with shaking fingers. “Take this,” he tells the kid, and stares at him in those bright blue eyes until Phil gets the point and stares back. “Don’t let go of it, alright? And no matter what happens—you do what I say. If I tell you to fight, you fight. If I tell you to run, you _run like hell_ , alright?”

And Phil scrunches his face, like he’s confused, like he’s worried, but there is a tightness in Techno’s chest and there’s not enough time to send Phil or Carl away. Together, maybe they can flee far enough. With all three of them, they can hide in one of the war bunkers until whatever storm is coming has passed.

But there is humming in Techno’s ears, slowly rising in pitch and fury, and if the chorus has led them here because they want their _entertainment_ —well. Better to keep a few cards up their sleeves, and all that.

* * *

“Who are they?” Phil asks, wide-eyed and violent in the faces of those who are startled to see him.

Quackity throws Techno a glare. Tubbo mutters something under his breath about coping mechanisms. Fundy hefts his axe. The new guy, the black and white suited one, takes a step backwards.

Techno doesn’t know why they’re here. But judging from the weaponry and the fact that they are the first to reach him here in retirement, they might have been the ones who’d hunted down adult Phil and brought him low.

“Forget about the kid,” Quackity snarls. “Technoblade, you are under arrest.”

“Arrest?” Techno snorts. He doesn’t shift, doesn’t move, but the plume of warm air in the arctic cold makes some of these guys flinch like he’s about to draw his sword. It amuses him, even if it leaves something cold in the pit of his stomach. “I’m in retirement, man, and not a citizen of your country besides. Can’t exactly arrest someone who isn’t bound to your laws.”

“You know,” the new guy says, “he has a point.”

“Shut up, Ranboo.” Tubbo raises his shield, makes a motion like he’s testing the weight of it. There’s a confidence on his face that Techno is suspicious of. There’s something else here. There’s something going on.

“You will be brought to L’Manberg,” Fundy snarls, “and face a trial.” He doesn’t look at Phil.

Techno remembers Wilbur, and Phil, and the gleaming-eyed way that Wil had talked about his adopted son, once upon a time.

“Can I kill them?” Phil asks, with the lilting tone of a kid who’s bored. “Please, Techno? Please? They’re not supposed to be here, so I’m allowed to kill them, right?”

Tubbo pales. Fundy makes a noise in the back of his throat, high-pitched, a whine. Quackity’s face darkens.

“Of course you’d teach a kid how to be bloodthirsty,” he snarls, with such hatred that it makes Techno do a double-take. “Monsters like you just create more monsters. Well, no more of that. We’re ending it today.”

* * *

He manages to get Phil onto Carl before the fighting gets too dirty. Carl is a warhorse—the fight is in his blood—but he knows what it means when Techno snags him by the bridle and stares him in the eye and snarls, “ _Run_.”

Carl runs.

Techno stays, and holds the line, and wonders what’s the point.

Phil can take care of Carl; the horse is clever enough, intelligent enough, and skilled enough that he’ll make it easy for the kid to take care of him. And Carl, of course, is the favored horse of a man who’d been once known the empire over as the Emperor of Ice. He knows how to fight.

“Are you even paying attention?” Quackity shouts, as though a raised voice will convince Techno to listen to him. He’s swinging his axe with a little too much force, a little too much anger. His strikes are easy to predict and easy to dodge.

Techno slides out a foot in the snow to trip Quackity, then grabs-the-wrist-digs-in-his-heel-and-twists. Quackity trips into the ankle-hook and goes flying in the snow.

It leaves him with the axe, and while Fundy and Tubbo are circling, Techno hefts it in his hand. It’s a decent weight. Nothing special, and the diamond edge is a little concerning against the rest of their netherite armors, but it will be enough for this.

There’s a whistling noise. Techno ducks and lunges to the side; the sword skates by over his head. Quackity follows suit, balance fumbling when the resistance he’s expecting from Techno isn’t there, but he’s readjusting quickly enough. Someone’s taught him since the Monday Massacres, or at least given him some pointers.

There’s ice crunching under boots behind him, and that’s Fundy, leading with the shield. Techno hefts his shiny new axe in hand and throws it, follows through when Fundy does what any sane person would do and bring up his shield to block the axe.

Fundy isn’t prepared for the sword in his side that snakes around the shield, lightning quick. Techno has fought in snow before, and had made the terrain his own by necessity. He’s taught other people the little tricks that make it easier to fight in the ice and sleet, and these people know none of them.

He pulls out his sword from Fundy’s side, flicks the dying glimmers of Player blood off of it. It’s unnecessary, not when Fundy is already shattering into respawn light, but it’s a good habit and it’s necessary intimidation.

One down, three to go. It’s not even the one he’d been _trying_ to kill, but then again, these L’Manbergians have one thing right at least. They’d closed ranks around his preferred target, and had ganged up on him to split his attention.

Still. They’re years too young to be challenging him, and he raises his chin to look at Tubbo in the eye to make that point.

“Go home,” he says, with Player blood on his hands and smeared across his cheek. He still has sword and axe and both hands and both feet, and this small valley in the north is his domain. “This is your last warning. Don’t make me kill all of you.”

He is no longer pleading, but they are no longer listening. They make him kill all of them.

And then they respawn. Of course they do. They must have set a waypoint somewhere nearby, either just out of sight of his house or maybe even on the edge of the ice-logged sea, because Techno doesn’t feel the magic building them back until Fundy’s taking the place of a fallen Ranboo, eyes hard, teeth bared, snarling.

He doesn’t have his items, of course, but Techno can only carry so many things. Fundy swipes up the netherite sword in the snow and lunges forward in the same movement, unheeding of the way he has no armor, no potions, no golden apples, nothing.

Techno grits his teeth and knocks the sword aside with a swipe of his own, before he grabs Fundy by the shoulder. He brings them both down into the snow.

He doesn’t get enough time to gut the guy, though, before Quackity’s back in the fight again, knuckles whitened around the grip of his diamond axe. Right. Techno’d dropped that when its purpose had been done.

“Enough,” Quackity snarls, “ _Enough_ ,” and he’s got something in his hand. It’s—the cloak, chrysanthemum and all. Techno feels his heart leap into his throat.

That’s the cloak, live wire and sentient and angry, and that’s blood, still gleaming wet on the hems, and that’s Quackity, and Tubbo isn’t here. Ranboo isn’t here. There are plenty of reasons why and only some of them are in Techno’s favor. Carl is a warhorse, though, he would have _screamed_ bloody murder if they’d been run down, and he is one of the fastest that Techno has ever raised. The chances are minuscule. Astronomically low.

But the chorus is purring, humming and happy, and there’s only one reason why they would do that.

“You come quietly with us, or we kill the kid.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that, anyway?” Fundy asks, gasping through where Techno’s got an arm to his throat and a blade hovering over his eye. “You found another blond kid that looks _exactly_ like my grandpa, like your so-called best friend and ol’ war buddy, and just—fuckin’—adopted him? Is that it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Quackity says, before Techno can. “ _Choose_ , Technoblade, you’ve got a choice here. You either surrender and come with us to face a trial for your crimes, or we kill the kid.”

“Not much of a democracy, are you,” Techno snorts. There’s a buzzing in his ears, low but steadily rising. He flexes his fingers on the grip of his sword, but the bladepoint never wavers from above Fundy’s eye.

He pauses, pretends he hesitates, but there’s never been any other choice.

He rolls off Fundy and brings his sword with him in one movement. He doesn’t look away from either of them, and when he’s back on his own feet, weapon loosely gripped, breathing battle-even in the cold of the arctic, he’s ready.

There are two Totems, and he’d given one to Phil, and he’s never been afraid to visit that howling void again. This is easy. This will be easy. There is no other acceptable consequence.

And then there’s the twang of a crossbow, too fast to dodge and with the odd hum of an enchantment at work, and Quackity drops his weapon to clutch his hands over his chest. It’s too little, too late; the bolt has already found its mark.

Fundy gets one to the throat before he can do more than startle; quick and neat.

Techno raises his sword to first position, easy guard, easy go, but no bolt comes flying out of the arctic hills for him to cut down. There is no back up, no raid, no other aggrieved coming out for revenge on behalf of something that doesn’t even breathe.

There’s just him, and the snow, and—

“You alright?” asks Phil, astride on Carl, enchanted crossbow in hand. There’s a set to his jaw and blood on his shirt and it’s familiar, it’s a sight out of Techno’s own past, it’s—

How? the chorus asks, and it’s angry. How? How?

“Some things are greater than a curse,” Techno murmurs, and spits out the blood from between his teeth. He grins, and Phil is backlit against the arctic sun, bloodied and radiant. He is young, he is not the one Techno had grown up with—but he’s still Phil, down in the heart of him.

“You’re alright?”

“They tried,” Phil says, cheerful, indominable, the same Phil he’s always been. Techno remembers this from the Antarctic, too, and takes in a full breath just to feel the crispness of it in his lungs. “President Tubbo and that other half-Ender guy, don’t know his name. But they had their respawn waypoint nearby, those idiots!”

How did you survive?

“Wasn’t that hard,” Phil says. No—answers. Techno stares. Had he—

He killed you.

“He tried,” and here Phil rolls his eyes, even though there’s nothing and no one to direct it to. The universe, maybe. The greater void. “But he couldn’t fuckin’ commit to the strike. What a noob.”

This is not what we wanted, the chorus says, now confused and in despair, but too late, it’s too late, they’ve tried the best they can and even they can’t change the hearts of men. Techno remembers them trying, and even past the pounding at his temples, he remembers too:

No matter the age, no matter the time period, no matter the old and new scars that haunt them both, Phil is a survivor. He’ll be fine.

But Techno still asks, “You can hear them,” just to make sure.

Phil blinks at him, wide-eyed and innocent. Carl snorts, a plume of steam rising from his great horse nostrils. “Just a little,” he says. “Like—whispers, almost, that you think you hear but can’t be sure about. They’re quite mean, aren’t they?”

 _Mean_ doesn’t even begin to cover it. Techno sheathes his sword and presses the heels of both palms into his eyes, and breathes in. Breathes out.

“Hey, hey.” There’s a rattle and a slip and a thud in the snow, and then Phil’s crunching through it to hug him at the waist. He’s too short, but he tightens his grip enough to make it not matter. “You doin’ okay, Techno? C’mon, the bad guys are gone—wait, shit, did they have poison or something, did they hurt you—”

“No poison,” Techno says, because he would recognize the burning in his veins from a mile off. “They didn’t hurt me.” Just give him a heart attack.

Phil’s arms tighten even further. Techno _oomphs_ , low and soft, and—finally, finally—lets himself slump forward to press his forehead against Phil’s.

The kid who’s pressed up against him stills. Fingers splay against his back, arms tighten into a vice, and his ribs are creaking with the force but he can’t even bring himself to mind.

Slowly, carefully, Techno raises his own bloody hands.

* * *

“What have they been telling you?”

“That this is going to happen again,” Phil says, staring down into his cup of tea. Out of the cloak and armor he seems small, much too small, his wings taking up half his breadth and height. “That there’s a reason I’m alive, and will continue to be alive, and you, too—”

He inhales sharply. He takes a sip of tea even though it’s still steaming hot. Techno rubs his thumb against the ceramic of his own mug.

“We did something,” Phil starts, carefully like he’s traversing a field of buried TNT. “A—a long time ago. Maybe even longer ago than the cloak and the symbol we both have.”

Chrysanthemums and white suns, and the empire hadn’t been all that long ago, really, but—yes. Compared to the old behemoth, this server feels like a freshly planted acorn next to a centuries-old oak tree. Techno nods.

“And then it’s just—never stopped?”

“Dunno,” Techno says, even though he knows. Or thinks he knows, at least. The chorus really hadn’t been subtle with their references to Odysseus and Elpenor. There’s the sinking feeling in his gut, too, that if he’d let them talk they would have made a comparison between Phil and someone else instead, but—he digresses. “Have they made you—”

Uncomfortable? Concerned? _Threatened_ him? Stars, Techno hasn’t had to fight an immortal being or kill a supernatural creature in years, and he’s retired, he doesn’t have any of the supplies for it right now—but for Phil, he would. For Phil, he’d come out of retirement.

He’d do a lot of things for Phil, no matter that baby Phil doesn’t remember their shared history and wouldn’t do the same, and isn’t that the root of their problems right now. But what else is there to do?

We are generous, the chorus whispers, quiet and insidious. And yeah, maybe they had been. Techno certainly appreciates the fact that they’d let some things slip. He can’t remember how the curse had started but they’d bent their own rules in pursuit of their entertainment.

“No,” Phil says, when Techno’s stayed quiet too long. He’s kicking his feet beneath the table again, back and forth, back and forth. The whisper-soft brush of slippers on wooden flooring brings Techno’s focus back. “I can’t hear them that often, really. Just once or twice, when we were—uh, getting wither skeletons? And then earlier today, when I was trying to break the respawn waypoint.”

Adult Phil would have known how to conceal a wince from Techno; baby Phil has it written across his face. They must have been screaming at him, upset that their opportunity of watching continued bloodshed has ended so abruptly.

Techno takes a measured sip of his own tea. Try that again, he dares the chorus, and runs his tongue across the back of his teeth. Try that again, and see what I’ll do.

The ceaseless chattering of the chorus—stops. Quiets.

You can’t kill us. You couldn’t. We are the ones who gave you this gift.

And he can appreciate it, while hunting them down for messing with Phil. They can do what they want with his own soul, but they can’t with Phil’s. That is where he draws the line.

That’s what he said.

What?

“Techno.” That’s Phil, raising his eyes from the table, eyes widening. He’s so young but right now, in this moment—there’s Phil. “Techno, what did you try and ask them?”

Nothing, he almost says, before he swallows it down. Instead he says, “You don’t have to stay with me.”

And Phil—he rears back like he’s been stabbed.

Techno swallows hard, but he has to go on. “You saw them come for me. They weren’t here for you. They would have killed you, and they threatened to, just to get me to back down. So. You can go, if you want to—an’ you should, really, I’ll help you get a house all set up—”

“You’re throwing me out?”

Techno blinks. When his vision clears, there’s Phil, sinking back into his seat, his wings curling around to hide him from view. There’s devastation on that young face who hadn’t grown up on the streets with him.

“No, never,” he says, and reaches out across the table slowly. He’s not expecting Phil to take it, but nevertheless a small hand darts out to grab at his own.

Techno reaches out with his other hand, then, and folds both his hands over both of Phil’s. Braces his elbows on the table. Wishes he had his own wings still, to blanket them both and keep out the world while Techno tells this secret—but he’d sacrificed those for this double-edged curse of a second chance.

“You always have a place with me,” Techno says, and watches the shift in Phil’s eyes. “It’s just. You might want a place where you don’t get attacked again, y’know? And I understand that.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Phil says, immediately and viscerally offended. Techno blinks. “Those fuckers chose to come to your house and try to fuck shit up—that’s not on you. That’s not your fault.”

“Well, I did spawn withers in their country—”

“And then you left, and went peaceful, and secluded yourself. That’s retributive justice, not restorative.”

Techno opens his mouth to argue again, but then he pauses. Thinks about it. Says, with a huff of laughter, “You’re right, but that doesn’t mean they won’t try again.”

Repeating the same thing and expecting a different result is just insanity. Techno’s learned that, which is why he’s retired, but the L’Manbergians might not. And anyway, they know Phil as the kid who lives with him, now—they’ll still keep away from Phil, even if he moves out.

“Yeah. So I should be here to help when they do!” Phil grins at him, small and sharp and bloodthirsty. “Besides. Who else is gonna let me ride a warhorse? Carl’s the only one!”

And—

You were not made for peace, the chorus is saying, but there’s Phil’s hands tucked into Techno’s and their armors on the stand, their weapons stored away.

Phil is fifteen. Techno is much older. But all they’ve got is time, now, and Techno has a duty. A privilege. A pleasure.

Besides. He’s taught Phil how to ride, and Carl how to recognize this new-old-new-Phil that is Techno’s best friend, but if he’s going to teach Phil everything properly then he’s just getting started.

“Carl’s not the only warhorse,” Techno says, and smiles when Phil wiggles his wings, shuffles in his seat in surprise. “You wanna go meet Andrew?”

**Author's Note:**

> That translation of [the first passage of _the Odyssey_](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/9049454-tell-me-about-a-complicated-man-muse-tell-me-how), and all other passages of the chorus's speech within the fic, is done by [Dr. Emily Wilson](https://www.emilyrcwilson.com/about-wilson), who was [the first woman to publish a translation of it](https://www.vox.com/identities/2017/11/20/16651634/odyssey-emily-wilson-translation-first-woman-english).
> 
> Chrysanthemums can mean, depending on where you are and what time period it is: friendship, long life, good fortune, truth, loyalty, honesty, in memoriam, and hope.
> 
> And yes, you read that right. Techno gave up his wings to give Phil a second chance at life, and then Phil did the same, and neither of them noticed until the chorus let that slip to Techno. :)
> 
> If you can't read it, in order the Zalgo texts say:  
> We demand it.  
> What do you think?  
> missing heart.  
> Forever to fight, forever to separate  
> There will be no peace for you.  
> Grateful to be alive, they crawl to land.  
> All things have a price.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **An alternate ending:**
>
>> He has the Totem, but that is not Phil—will never be his Phil—his Phil is dead, and baby Phil is here and needs someone to help him out. Techno is maybe not wanted, but he is definitely needed.
>> 
>> But if he’s right—oh, stars, if he’s right—then baby Phil will have a baby Techno, after, and Techno himself can go rest with his Phil. 
>> 
>> He strokes his thumb over the cold ridges of the Totem, and then—
>> 
>> The anvil falls.
>> 
>> He opens his eyes. There is someone outside the metal bars, wide-eyed, hat askew, and it’s Phil, it’s always been Phil, and he’s yelling his name. 
>> 
>> Techno steps on top of the anvil, then out of the cage, and falls into his—who?—no, that’s—
>> 
>> He falls into his best friend’s arms and he doesn’t let go.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)
> 
> **This author sees and appreciates all comments but may not reply due to exhaustion and anxiety.**
> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “-whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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